


U Is For Ubiquity Thy Name Is Sherlock

by mydogwatson



Series: A Baker Street Alphabet [21]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Engagement, Established Relationship, Hiatus, Johnlock Roulette, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 17:17:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody needs a hobby.  Sherlock's, apparently, is following John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	U Is For Ubiquity Thy Name Is Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> Must admit to being a bit startled to realize, that between this and my other series, I have now posted 52 stories. Guess I really do love these guys. Glad so many others agree!

Sherlock doesn’t follow me everywhere.  
-Dr. John H. Watson

Well, apparently he does.

 

1

 

My decision to follow John was perfectly logical, of course. After the events at the swimming pool, which were possibly [probably] caused in part by my carelessness, it could not be right to let my blogger go wandering around the city unprotected.

Especially when he had not told me where he was going.

“Off out to run some errands,” was all he said, rather breezily, in my opinion.

“What errands?” I enquired, quite properly.

It would be very inconvenient if anything happened to John, which is why I asked. Acceptable flatmates are not ten pence a dozen.

“Oh, nothing terribly exciting.” He turned around to look at me, a vaguely amused expression in his eyes. [Usually I like specificity, but sometimes his eyes look hazel, sometimes blue, so that is difficult in this case. Not that John is a case.] “Why? Did you want to come along?”

Such a ridiculous question scarcely deserved a response. Sherlock Holmes did not run errands. However, it seemed rude to just ignore the invitation [even if I suspected it had been made in jest], so I snorted in disdain.

John only grinned. He often finds me entertaining, not in the usual Sherlock-is-a-horror-show way of everybody else, but in a way unique to him. Almost as if he and I are sharing the joke.

“Okay, see you later then.”

It was a warm day, so I didn’t need a coat or scarf. Did grab a baseball cap left there just for the purpose. I waited just until I heard the front door close, then headed down the stairs.

John was obviously in no hurry as he was still in sight. Luckily [well, luck has nothing to do with it, of course] I have trained myself in moving surveillance. An interesting story there. One night in a pub I passed some time while waiting for the blackmailer to show up by talking to an actor. He told me about using your mind to change how people perceive you visually. I can make myself look quite ordinary when necessary. Especially with my hair covered by a cap and dark glasses shielding my gaze.

So John and I were going to do errands. After a fashion.

Apparently, a walk in the park was the first ‘errand’. Complete with an ice cream [strawberry with chocolate sprinkles] purchased from a truck. [I passed on that. John seemed to enjoy it.]

Next stop: Marks and Spencer. To anyone who has seen John’s wardrobe, not a surprise. He bought yet another plaid shirt. I have no idea why. And apparently one can never have too many jumpers. Actually, I rather liked the colour of this one, a nice shade of blue that will complement his eyes. Which, of course, is entirely irrelevant.

From M&S, he went into Waterstone’s and bought one of those ridiculous murder mysteries he likes to read, usually on a Sunday afternoon with a cup of tea. I have always hated Sunday afternoons; it is the most boring time of the week. Unless there is a case, I am reduced to sitting in my kitchen staring at slides under the microscope and watching my flatmate sip tea and read Agatha What’s-Her-Name. I can deduce the exact moment when John figures out who the guilty party is from the look on his face.

Oddly, he spent some time browsing the Science section, although I had never seen him read anything more scientific than a medical journal. It occurred that he was contemplating a gift purchase for me, just in case such an occasion ever arose. Why would that happen? Still, it was almost pleasant to imagine that it might. Of course, then I would be obligated to purchase a gift for him, wouldn’t I? Perhaps I should start thinking about that now, in order to be ready.

We moved on.

At the bank, John did some business with the teller and then walked away, frowning as he contemplated his balance. John worries about money. One day soon I might tell him about my trust fund. Eventually Mycroft will have to give me access again and then we won’t have to even think about money any more.

Although I anticipate that John will be difficult about it.

A quick stop at Boots was next, where he purchased shaving cream, shampoo [the usual brand, I was pleased to note, since the scent is quite pleasant], and a package of condoms. Which meant that he must have a date.

That irritates me, because it means that he will not be available should I need him. Instead of just yelling, “John, a case!” in his direction, I will have to send a text, which might be inconvenient. I do wish he would think these things through.

He headed towards the flat, stopping only at Tesco. My phone beeped indicating an incoming text.

//AT SHOP FOR MILK. ANYTHING ELSE?//

He always asks, which is unnecessary, of course, because I waste no time on such mundane matters as groceries. But John asks.

//CHOCOLATE BISCUITS.//

I watch him read the text. He smiles and shakes his head.

In the beginning, at those times when John was amused by me, I was on guard, waiting for his amusement to evolve into mockery, as it always did eventually.

But not with John. Never with John.

Sometimes late at night, since I require very little sleep, I think about that.

He picked up the biscuits that I like before adding some readymade meals to the basket [moussaka, pasta, curry].

Luckily there was no disagreement with the chip and pin machine on this occasion.

I took a more convenient route back [one rooftop involved] so that when John came through the door, moaning about the bags as usual, I was already sitting in my chair.

“I’m back,’ he announced unnecessarily. Then he glared at me. “Have you even moved since I left?”

I barely glanced up at him. “I don’t know. When did you leave?”  
*

2

Many [most] people believe that I am ignorant of the appropriate behavior involved in human interaction. They are wrong [of course]. I understand the concept perfectly well.

I simply do not care.

Still, perhaps I do feel a slight twinge of guilt when I follow John on his dates.

But, really, the man has no common sense when it comes to dating. This latest woman is clearly not an appropriate match. Did he not notice the greedy expression in her eyes when she looked at him? She might even be dangerous.

For example, I recently read of a case in Bulgaria concerning a woman they labeled a Black Widow. At least seven men she dated had been murdered. Poisoned by this woman, who according to the mugshot, had very greedy eyes. One of her victims was even a doctor! I would be willing to bet that had anyone [his flatmate, if he had one] criticized this woman, he would have described her as “a perfectly nice person” as well.

So for my flatmate/blogger/friend [no matter what he says, I will not use the word colleague] to be out with this Rose or Lily or whatever ridiculous name she has poses an unacceptable threat.

All of which explains why I am sitting in a dark corner of this bistro, hidden by the excessive [and blatantly fake] greenery, listening to John and his date [whose name it turns out is Susan] talk about the most boring subjects in the world. The weather [really, John?], politics, film. It was all I could do not to fall asleep. John had to be just as bored, I know. But he would persist. After all, he had a condom in his wallet.

Susan finally mentioned the blog.

I could almost feel John straightening. He is very proud of that ridiculous blog. “Oh,” he said, “I didn’t know you’d read it.”

A new thought occurred. Was this Black Widow so arrogant that she thought she could poison the flatmate/blogger/friend of Sherlock Holmes and actually get away with it? Oh, that would be very ambitious of her. Did that woman really think that if she hurt John Watson she would ever see the inside of a courtroom?

The idiot giggled. “It’s not the truth, is it? All those things you write about?”

“Yes, of course. Every word.”

Did she think he was a liar? Admittedly, John does tend to romanticize things a bit, but he never lies. He is an honest man.

Was she impressed by our adventures? Ha.

“But that’s insane. That so-called detective must be certifiable.”

Certifiable? That was almost amusing, coming as it did from a woman who undoubtedly was just waiting for the perfect opportunity to poison her date.

I could imagine John’s smile; it would be a bit forced, as he did not care for it when people implied that I am crazy. Maybe because it said something about him, that he would be the friend of a freak. But I don’t think that’s it. He just doesn’t like it.

“Sherlock is fine,” he said. “Actually, he’s a genius.”

I couldn’t help straightening just a bit.

She was still laughing. “Body parts in the fridge? Rooftop chases? Dragging you into danger whenever he likes?”

I was starting to seriously hate her. What business was it of hers what John and I did? She was clearly trying to put him off me.

Well, that wouldn’t work.

Would it?

John’s voice was sounding a bit strained. Maybe he was still hoping to ‘get a leg over’, but despite that he wouldn’t let the slander pass. “Sherlock doesn’t drag me anywhere.”

Surprisingly, even this idiot seemed to realise that the path she was on would not get her what she wanted, so she backtracked. “Oh, well,” she said with a patently false cheeriness. “I suppose it’s a bit of fun until you decide to settle down for a normal life.”

The idea of John settling down into a ‘normal’ life made me feel distinctly nauseous.   
If she were like the woman in Bulgaria, the attempt to poison John would not happen until after they’d had sex. Hence the name Black Widow.

It was quite clear what I had to do.

After leaving the bistro, I stopped on the sidewalk and took out my phone to send a text to Lestrade.

//NEED A CASE. ANYTHING.//

A reply came quickly.

//SORRY. NOTHING BUT A BORING DOMESTIC MURDER.//

//DEAD BODY? FINE. WHERE?//

Lestrade started to protest again, then just sent me the address in Battersea. He has learned.

Immediately, I sent another text, this one to John. 

//NEED YOU. MURDER. COULD BE DANGEROUS. MEET ME?//

There was a pause as he obviously tried to explain things to the woman. I was already in a cab when I received his reply.

//BE THERE ASAP. BE CAREFUL!//

//OF COURSE.//

//YOU JUST RUINED ANOTHER DATE.//

//YOU’RE WELCOME.//

I relaxed into the cab seat and smiled.

*

3

It was not the first time I had followed John to the cemetery. This time he was alone. He did not seem to notice the light rain that was falling or the mud that stuck to his shoes. Nor did he notice the figure standing in the trees near the grave. Why should he have? A thin man in ripped and filthy blue jeans and an Oxfam jacket, his red hair clipped short, meant nothing to John.  
Or to any one else either.

It was not the first time, but it was the last time I would be here with John. By nightfall I would be leaving London, leaving England.

Leaving Baker Street and my only friend.

Whether I would ever see the flat or John again was an open question.

The pain I was feeling might well kill me before my enemies could.

John was gripping the headstone. He was talking, but I could not hear his words.

I should not have followed him here today.

This time he did not execute a soldier’s turn and march away. Instead, he limped back towards the waiting cab.

Following John was always only meant to keep him safe. Safe from those who meant him harm. Safe from those who would have led him, ever so gently, into a normal life, which I knew he would hate. The only thing I could not keep him safe from was Sherlock Holmes. The destruction of John Watson was down to me. Maybe I am not a freak, but perhaps I am a monster.

I wanted to run after him, tell him I was alive, that I wanted him to come along on this dreadful adventure, that if ruination was what we both faced, we should face it together.

I wanted to tell him so many things.

Most of all, I just wanted to keep following him.

But instead I only watched him go. Again.

It had gotten no easier.

*

4

It was far from satisfactory.

But it was something and that something meant everything to a man on the edge of utter desolation. Which I most definitely was.  
The image was fuzzy and ill lit, just barely identifiable as a London street. But considering where I am, somewhere in the hills of Afghanistan, trying to avoid all sides in an endless war that did not concern me at all [except that it made me think of John], this image was almost a miracle. Probably the presence of all those soldiers was the reason I could get a signal here, so at least the war was serving some purpose.

It had taken me weeks to hack into London’s CCTV apparatus, with a little secret help from codes stolen from Mycroft. I leaned back against the stone wall that surrounded the courtyard of what had once been a dwelling but was now only a ruin. Oh, well, that was something I was very familiar with. But that did not matter as I sat and watched John Watson walk along the pavement of a city thousands of miles away.

I smoked one cigarette after another, following John’s progress from the corner shop back to 221B Baker Street. Home. I wondered if it were hard for him to live surrounded by memories. Could I have done that? Or perhaps being surrounded by bits of the past was all that kept him going. Not that things seemed to be going very well. Even in the pitiful image I could see that John was thin and limping. His hair was too long.

John paused on the pavement in front of the building and stared directly at the CCTV camera.

I leaned forward, as if being even 15.240 cm closer made me miss him less, and stared at the image. Two fingers of John’s free hand lifted towards the camera and even in the dreadful image I was able to read his lips.

“Fuck off, Mycroft,” he said.

For the first time in a very long time, I laughed aloud.

//Oh, John. John.//

Then the image flickered and disintegrated.

I continued to stare at the blank screen for a very long time anyway.

*

5

I will never forget the look on John’s face when he left me.

No matter how hard I try to delete the image it is permanently etched on my hard drive, as if scratched on with the point of a sharp blade.  
Just a month before I had asked him to marry me and he had accepted. A date had yet to be set, as we were enjoying the novelty of an engagement.

Now a date would never be set, because John had left me.

There had not even been an argument. We argued all the time, about important things and, especially, about things that did not matter at all. I wish we had argued over this.

It was all my fault and as I admit that I can hear the world say, “Of course.” The world always knew that I would be the one to destroy this. I always knew it.

When I came home from my…hiatus and John forgave what I had done, he asked for only one thing in return.

//Never leave me behind again.//

And I had promised.

I had lied.

The fact that, once again, I had only been trying to keep him safe did not matter.

When I walked into the flat after thirty-six hours, still wearing the bloody shirt, John was sitting in his chair. Lestrade had called while I was having stitches, so my arrival was expected.

Surprisingly, considering that the good doctor could shout for England, there was no yelling this time. I went to change my shirt. When I returned to the room, he had not moved. When he looked at me there was no anger at all on his face. Only disappointment. I would have preferred fury. Fury I could deal with. Disappointment made me ache in a way I could not understand.

I took a deep breath. “John,” I began.

He held up a hand to stop me. “Don’t,” he said. “There is no way to explain or excuse this. You went off on your own again. After a homicidal maniac. Sound familiar?”

This could be explained. “He was after you, John. The risk was---”

John stood and he had never looked more the soldier than at that moment. He marched over and put his coat on.  
“You need some air?” I asked softly.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I can’t do this anymore.” He met my gaze and that’s when the expression on his face was embedded on my mind. Or my heart. “Goodbye.”

And then he left.

John left me.

I stood there for several endless seconds, simply staring at the doorway, willing him to appear again. But the downstairs door closed and he was gone.

And I followed him, because I don’t know how not to follow John Watson.

I did not even try to conceal myself. I just trailed after him like a broken down dog following the master who tried to abandon him in the wilderness. Maybe I was hoping John would simply pull out his gun, turn around, and put me out of my misery. It would have been a kindness. 

We moped around London for three hours and twenty-seven minutes, never acknowledging one another. John finally stopped on a bridge over the canal near the zoo. He leaned against the railing and watched the water below. After two minutes and ten seconds, without looking around, he held up a hand and gestured me closer.

Immediately I moved to stand next to him.

“I wish I could leave you,” he said in a hoarse voice.

“I know,” was all I could say. I might have added that it would be best for him to go, it would be safer for him to be without me. But I am not that courageous.

“But I can’t. I will never leave you.”

Still I was quiet, because I did not deserve to speak.

He turned to look at me finally. “You’ve broken my heart, Sherlock.”

Those words made my knees buckle and I only remained standing because of the grip I had on the bridge. Now I had to say something and it had to be nothing but the pure truth. “I will live with that for the rest of my life,” I said to him.

“Good,” he said.

I reached out with my fingers to smooth the lines from his face. “Never again,” I said.

John sighed.

I took his face in both my hands. “Never again,” I repeated.

He nodded. “I believe you.”

I released him and risked a faint smile. “Millions wouldn’t.”

His mouth turned up as well. “They don’t love you.” He stared into my eyes. “They don’t know that you can’t live without me.”

I huffed a bit. “Nonsense,” I said. “Anybody who knows me understands that all too well. Probably people who pass me on the street know.”

After a moment, John just nodded.

“Wait here a moment,” I said.

“What--?” 

I just patted his arm and walked to the end of the bridge to the ice cream truck parked there.

He watched as I came back, holding an ice cream, strawberry with chocolate sprinkles. “Your favorite.”

“How did you know?”

I just smiled at him.

*

6

I followed John into the registrar’s office on the day we got married.

fini


End file.
